


Canvas of Flesh

by SandWitch42



Category: Supernatural
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-01-17
Updated: 2019-01-17
Packaged: 2019-10-11 20:36:31
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 16,160
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17453867
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SandWitch42/pseuds/SandWitch42
Summary: Dean is an auto mechanic who started dabbling in air brushing on vehicles.  At the encouragement from his brother's girlfriend, he applies for a body art competition and is accepted for season four.  It's just for fun, but the prize money sure would be nice.  Getting to know that blue-eyed model would also be nice...





	Canvas of Flesh

**Author's Note:**

> I started writing this with Dean being aware of the cameras everywhere, the starts and stops of filming, the interviews, and all the extra ass pains that come with filming a show. It was exhausting and not very fun, both with writing it and then reading back through it. I shifted to ignoring the cameras and just letting the story happen as though the cameras are as invisible as they are to people who watch television. I hope this makes it flow better. 
> 
> Also, if any artists feel compelled to use any of this as inspiration, I welcome it. I know art takes work, and I'm not asking for anything for free, but if you are so inclined to share it, I would be delighted to see how it matches up to what I see in my head. 
> 
> Enjoy!

Dean blinked at his computer screen, shook his head, and read the open email one more time. He couldn't believe it. Maybe he was just up too early, hadn't had any coffee yet -why was he checking his email before coffee anyway?- and his eyes were playing tricks on him. He read the email again. As he sat there in shock, his cell phone buzzed on the desk next to his laptop. Dean tore his eyes from the screen and looked down at the display on the phone.

_Incoming Call: Sam_  
_Answer / Ignore_

Dean lifted the phone, swiped his thumb across the green dot on the glass, and gave it one more tap to turn on speaker phone before setting it back down. "Mornin' Sammy."

"Hey, I just finished my run and was gonna grab some breakfast. Want me to bring you something?"

That was Sam; while Dean was still groggily waking up, Sam had already been up for hours and gone on a run that -if he knew his brother- was no less than three miles long. It was insane. Dean knew exercise kept one healthy, but, God, at what cost?

"Dean?"

Dean startled and realized he had been reading the email again. "Yeah. Yeah, bring me some donuts. And coffee. A lot of it." He heard Sam chuckle before the line went dead.

Fifteen minutes passed before Dean's front door opened and Sam announced himself. Dean was still sitting in front of his laptop, but by now, his shock had morphed into happy amazement.

"I'm not bringing it to you," Sam called out from the kitchen. That was the urge Dean needed to finally heft himself from his desk chair. He made his way out of the office and through the hall to join his brother in the kitchen. A box of hot donuts sat on the island beside a large steaming paper cup of coffee, complete with a cardboard insulator. Dean popped the plastic lid off of it before burying his face in the hot liquid. Only after a few scalding sips did he finally lower it and greet his brother.

"Thanks, man," he said. "How was your run?" Honestly, Dean didn't particularly care what the answer would be because he already knew. It was running; it was awful.

"It was good. Took the five mile loop, the area around the park with the hills. You know the one?"

Dean murmured non-committally and continued drinking his coffee. No, he did not know the one. What kind of nutjob runs on hills on purpose? Oh, right. The one standing in his kitchen. Dean helped himself to a still-warm donut.

"So what has you so off balance today that you couldn't even brew your own coffee?" Sam inquired, sucking at a red straw. It was only then that Dean realized Sam was holding a clear plastic cup filled with some kind of foul-looking green slop. For what felt like the millionth time, Dean wondered how the two of them could possibly be related, but the fact that Sam had recognized Dean's inability to function this morning answered that question. They may not be too terribly much alike, but they got each other.

"I uh, I got an email this morning," Dean began.

"And?"

"And I got accepted."

"Accepted? To...?" Before Dean could fill in the blank, Sam's dark green eyes lit up suddenly, and a huge grin split his face. "Dean! That's awesome!" He plopped the nasty, green drink on the counter top and pulled his brother into a tight hug. Dean finally allowed the excitement to grip him, and he returned the hug, careful to not spill the coffee down his brother's back.

With a pat, he pulled back from Sam's embrace. "Come read it," he insisted. "Make sure I'm not kidding myself over this, and it's actually happening."

Sam followed Dean to the office where the laptop was still open to reveal the email that had potentially changed Dean's life. He took a seat in the chair at Dean's behest and read the email aloud.

"'Dear Dean Winchester,

On behalf of the staff and producers of Canvas of Flesh, I would like to congratulate you on being selected as one of the twelve contestants for Season Four.

Please be advised that no further information pertaining to specific dates or locations can be disclosed until a confirmation has been received. We look forward to hearing from you within the next five days.

Yours in Art,  
Gabriel Novak.'"

Sam turned dazzling eyes up to where Dean stood behind him. "Do you think it's automated, or did you really just get an email from Gabriel Novak?" Dean smirked at the way Sam's voice damn near caressed the name as it came out of his mouth.

"Hate to kill your fanboy buzz, but I'm pretty sure it's automated," Dean replied. He pulled the rolling chair -brother and all- back from the desk. "But if you'll get the hell out of the way, I do need to send my reply. Who knows? Maybe the next email with all the details will actually be from Gabriel. And I can tell him how very much in love with him my baby brother is."

Sam hopped up from the chair, punching at Dean's arm as he rose. "You better not." Dean rolled his shoulder and arm back, turning Sam's punch into a mere glance, and he used his other arm to push his brother out of the way with a laugh.

"I do what I want when I want. You know this by now." He plopped heavily into the chair and scooted forward to type out his response.

The whole thing was surreal. After watching the first season of Canvas of Flesh, Dean had pondered whether he would ever be good enough with an air brush to attempt body painting. When the second season rolled around, he had talked about it enough that Sam and his girlfriend Eileen had started watching it also. It was Eileen who had finally convinced Dean to apply for season three.

_"What's the worst that can happen?" Eileen had spoken aloud over the flurry of sign language. Dean watched her hands more than her face now when they communicated. It was only fair to work on learning ASL so he could converse with the woman who was more than likely going to become his sister-in-law._

_"They say no, and my hopes and dreams are shattered," Dean replied, spreading his arms wider than strictly necessary to show how large the explosion of shattered dreams would be._

_Eileen scoffed. "You paint for fun," she replied. "If they say no, nothing changes. No dreams will be shattered."_

_"You're right," Dean signed without speaking._

_"I know." Eileen also fell silent, and she offered Dean a gentle smile. She made another motion Dean didn't recognize. He tilted his head, brow furrowed, and mimicked it, letting her know he didn't understand her. "Try," she said while repeating the motion by stroking her thumbs down her chest again._

_So Dean had tried. He was met with denial for season three and had been ready to call it quits, but when word came out that there would be a fourth season, Eileen had smiled at him from across the room and made two motions: Try again._

Now here he sat, clicking the Send button to confirm his acceptance into Season Four of Canvas of Flesh. He was going to be one of twelve to have this once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to get his hands on some state of the art paint, brushes, and supplies the likes of which he would never see in the auto garage where he worked with his Uncle Bobby. Like it or lump it, he just didn't make enough money to buy high quality products just to feed a simple hobby. It would be different if it was a passion, but he was honest with himself when he said his passion was cars, not art.

He pushed back from the desk, twirling in the chair to look at Sam, who had been reading over his shoulder. "Now we wait," he said with an anticipatory grin.

"C'mon," Sam grinned back. "I heard from a reliable source that there's still coffee in the kitchen." Dean didn't need to be told twice.

.oOo.

Dean popped the gear shifter into park, killed the engine, left the keys in the ignition, and settled back into the supple leather seat of his car with a satisfied sigh. No matter the length of time he was in his Baby, whether a five minute trip to the store or a thirteen hour road trip, he never got tired of the rumble of her finely-tuned engine, kept purring by his own hands for as long as he could remember. This had been a thirteen hour road trip, stretched into two days' worth of driving with pit stops and an overnight hotel stay to make it more enjoyable for the brothers.

When Dean had received the next email from Gabriel Novak -which, truthfully, seemed very generic, as though it had been copied and pasted for all contestants, much to Sam's dismay- Dean's heart had stopped when it mentioned paid airfare as part of the experience. Nice of the company to shell out the expense of twelve plane tickets for people all over the country, but Dean didn't like to fly. No, that was too mild. He _hated_ flying. It scared him in a way he was unable to express. It didn't matter where in the country the competition was to take place, he would rather drive than fly. It so happened that a less than two hour flight from Lawerence, Kansas to New Orleans, Louisiana turned into a two day excursion.

It also meant Sam could go with him. Sort of. As stated in the digital contract he signed, once he arrived, he would have to be cut off from all communication with the outside world in an attempt to avoid spoilers for the upcoming season which wouldn't air until the whole competition was over and a winner was announced. That, in turn, meant he would be setting Sam loose by himself in New Orleans for anywhere between a couple days to a month. Of course, Sam wouldn't stay that long if Dean ended up doing well in the competition. He had a job and a girlfriend to get back home to and didn't have Dean's qualms about a flight home if he needed it. It had mainly been Dean's excitement that swept him into the car to make the drive down, and Dean had talked his little brother's ear off about his nerves and expectations the whole way.

It had ranged from, "Man, I got this in the bag. Remember that sweet mural I put down the side of that El Camino a couple weeks back? It doesn't get any prettier than that" to "What the hell am I doing, Sammy? Painting bodies isn't the same as painting cars. I'm gonna be the first one cut." Through it all, Sam was there for him, listening when he needed to listen and reassuring when Dean's will started to falter. Sam's encouragement helped tremendously, and by the time they were parked at the airport, Dean's spirits were high.

They got out of the car together and met at the trunk where Dean pulled out an olive, canvas duffel bag. It was age-worn, and the fabric was well softened from the original stiffness it once held when it had been issued to his father upon enlisting into the Marine Corps years before Dean was born. He hefted the straps over one shoulder and used his free arm to pull Sam into a rough hug. Just like that, his nerves were spiking again.

"You're gonna do great, Dean," Sam murmured, reading his brother's body language and knowing what to say. They pulled back from the hug, clapping each other on the shoulders. It was time. Sam rounded to the driver's side of the car, and Dean headed toward the entrance of the airport.

This part was ridiculous in Dean's opinion, but for cinematic purposes, he had been required to show up at the airport and let himself be recorded by the Canvas of Flesh camera crew as though he had, in fact, flown in. As he neared the main entrance of the airport, it was easy to spot the crew of three. One held a camera while the other two milled next to him. Even though they knew to expect him from the parking deck, all three were facing the sliding glass doors. Dean joined them and looked to the doors as well. He waited until a lone man who only marginally resembled himself walked through the doors.

"You think that's him?" he asked the man holding the camera.

"Uhh, maybe..." the man answered before actually turning to look at Dean. "Oh! Um. Can I help you?"

Dean grinned. "You're waiting for Dean Winchester, right?"

At Dean's words, one of the handlers stepped forward. "Are you Dean?"

"That's me."

"Great! Okay, here's what we need you to do..."

There were no other introductions. Dean was instructed on where he needed to go inside the building, how he needed to walk, don't look at the camera, and act like he was on his own as he walked toward the exit of the airport. His cue was a finger point from the handler instead of a shout of "Action!" which was actually a little disappointing. He adjusted the straps of the bag on his shoulder, walked to the glass doors, pushed it open, and walked past the camera.

"Cut! That was good. Thanks, Dean! Let's get you in the company car, and we'll drive to the convention center." They headed back toward the parking garage where Dean had left Sam with his car. No surprise, Sam was gone. Dean loaded his duffel into the trunk of the navy Ford Focus that was pointed out as the company car, and the door was opened for him to climb into the back seat. It was an alien feeling. He couldn't remember the last time he was in the back seat of a car for riding. Admittedly, there were other reasons he had been in the back seat of his own car. Tiny cameras littered the interior from all sides. The third handler, who hadn't spoken a word the entire time, put himself in the driver's seat while the one who had been directing Dean put himself into the front passenger seat. The camera man ducked into the trunk of a second Focus parked right next to them and was carefully packing the camera into a case. When he was done, he slipped into the driver's seat and shot a thumbs up to the men in the front of Dean's car. The two cars started up and left the parking garage.

The man up front turned in his seat to face Dean. "The drive is going to be about a half an hour," he said. "We're going to conduct an interview to use for footage. I need you to repeat my questions as part of your answer. Cool?"

"Yeah, I got it," Dean replied. "Do I need to face any of the cameras?"

"Nope. In fact, I need you to not only pretend they're not there, but pretend I'm not here. Look out the windows, take in the sights."

"Okay." Dean turned toward the door of the car.

"Don't turn so far. The camera still needs your profile."

Dean took a deep breath. _Jesus Christ_ , he thought, adjusting himself.

"That's good. Okay, let's begin. What's your name, age, and your profession?"

"My name is Dean Winchester. I'm an Aquarius. I enjoy sunsets, long walks on the beach, and frisky women."

The driver snorted, and a glance at the handler made it clear Dean's smart assery was not appreciated. "Age and profession," he repeated.

"I'm twenty-nine years old. I'm a mechanic in an auto body shop in Lawerence, Kansas, working with my uncle."

"Thank you. How long have you been an artist, and what started you on the path?"

Dean stared out the window, pondering how to word his answer. "I'm not an artist," he said carefully, then the rest came pouring out. "I started painting about five years ago in my uncle's shop. It started simply. Customers would come in with dings or chips in the paint, and I would offer to color-match to fix it up along with whatever repairs they had actually come in for. It got me playing, you know? I started doodling with the air brush on the beaters in the junk yard in my spare time.

"A customer came in with a screaming fan belt. Easy fix. While I was working on it, he wandered the junk yard. He saw some of my paintings and wanted to know if I'd do a custom paint job down the side of his car. We talked about his interests, color schemes, style, and I mocked up something he was happy with. He left with a buddy while I painted, and the look on his face when he got back and saw my work on his car... I knew this was something I wanted to keep doing. Word spread, and next thing you know I had a waiting list of people wanting me to do something on their cars too. From racing stripes to small bits that look like decals to full jobs that cover the entire vehicle."

"Front end flames?" the handler asked.

Dean barked a laugh. "Obviously."

"Please state the question with your answer," came the reminder.

With an eye roll, Dean answered. "Obviously there was more than one person who wanted front end flames. It's a very popular style."

"If you are the Canvas of Flesh champion this season, what do you plan to do with the prize money of one hundred thousand dollars?"

The question wasn't unexpected, and Dean had, of course, given it plenty of thought since the moment he learned he would be a competitor on the show. One hundred thousand dollars would go a long way toward a lot of things in his life. First and foremost in that, though...

"If I win the prize money, I'd really like to take a vacation. I've never seen the ocean before..." he trailed off. Was that something he wanted people who watched the show to know about him? It was too late to take it back, and he didn't want a request to not use that bit to be aired too. He could just imagine it.

_I've never seen the ocean before... Crap, don't use that on the show._

No, he'd just let it be.

"Anything else?"

"I'd like to put some upgraded equipment in my uncle's shop. He's done so much for me and my brother all our lives; he deserves to have nice things."

"Tell me more about your relationship with your uncle."

Dean couldn't stop himself; he looked straight at the handler instead of staring out the window as he'd been directed. "No,' he stated. "He's a private man, and he gets to stay that way. I'm not giving you his story just to have it broadcasted all over television."

The handler put his hands up in a surrender pose, but his words didn't match his body language. "We haven't even gotten halfway to the convention center. It's my job to get you talking as much as possible in the time we're in this car to use for the show. If you don't want to talk about your uncle, tell me about your brother."

Dean's eyes narrowed.

"Or yourself," the handler said quickly. "Are you married? Girlfriend?"

"I'm single," Dean replied, turning to face the window. The handler continued to ask questions, but Dean tuned him out. As far as he was concerned, this interview was over. He wasn't here to get grilled about his family and home life. He was here to paint.

.oOo.

The car pulled up out front of the Ernest N. Morial Convention Center. Dean slipped out of the back seat and walked to the trunk as it popped open from the latch pulled by the driver. He pulled the straps of his duffel over his shoulder and headed inside.

_Voiceover:_  
_Dean: My name is Dean Winchester. I'm twenty-nine years old. Single. I'm an Aquarius. I enjoy sunsets, long walks on the beach. I'm not an artist; I'm a mechanic. I started painting about five years ago in my uncle's auto body shop in Lawernce, Kansas. I started doodling on the beaters in the junk yard in my spare time._

_A customer came in, saw some of my paintings, and wanted to know if I'd do a custom paint job down the side of his car. The look on his face when he got back and saw my work... I knew this was something I wanted to keep doing. Next thing you know I had a waiting list. Racing stripes to full jobs. Obviously there was more than one person who wanted front end flames._

_If I win the prize money, I'd like to put some upgraded equipment in my uncle's shop. He's a private man. He's done so much for me and my brother all our lives; he deserves to have nice things. I'd really like to take a vacation. I've never seen the ocean before..._

Directly ahead was a large sign with "Canvas of Flesh" emblazoned across it and the oh, so recognizable logo of the provocatively arched naked woman underlining the words. On the television screen, she would flash with various displays of body paint, but here on the sign, she was merely a silhouette. Dean approached the sign and the stern-looking woman standing next to it. She was dressed in a grey pantsuit, her chestnut hair pulled back into a severe bun, and she held a clipboard.

"Name." It was more a demand than a request.

"Dean Winchester."

The woman didn't even confer with her clipboard; she simply nodded sharply and reached behind the sign where Dean could now see sat a small, white table with a box of electronics. The woman produced the tiniest wireless mic Dean had ever seen and handed it to him. "Clip it to your shirt collar," she instructed. As soon as Dean complied, she pointed to a row of other bags lined up along the wall next to a pair of double doors. "Leave your bag and go inside."

Dean didn't particularly like the idea of leaving his bag out there, but as he walked to the wall, he spotted a guy standing with his arms crossed, looking bored but alert. He was obviously in charge of keeping an eye on the bags. Lame job, but necessary in a public venue. Dean dropped his bag at the end of the row and looked to the guy. "Thanks for doing the dirty work," he said. It earned him the barest ghost of a smile.

Finally, Dean moved to the doors and pulled one open to let himself into the room beyond. What he saw stopped him in his tracks, right there in the doorway. The space the show had rented from the convention center was huge, as evidenced by the expanse of ceiling Dean could see, but at least this part where he stood was sectioned off with ten foot tall partition walls to form a smaller room. The walls were hung with artwork that had been painted by competitors from past seasons. Dean figured they were displayed as inspiration. In two neat lines in the middle of the room were twelve painting stations. _Oh man, we're probably going to start right away,_ he thought to himself. Across the room opposite where Dean let himself in was a raised dais where a sign identical to the one outside the door was hanging, framed by huge lengths of draped, shimmery black fabric, likely where the judges would position themselves when they arrived. Another wall was dominated by shelving units stacked top to bottom with more painting supplies than Dean ever expected to see in one lifetime. The fourth wall boasted a long table laden with silver dishes filled with all sorts of hors d'oeuvres and a broken circle of long-stemmed champagne glasses sparkling with bubbling liquid.

It wasn't until the handle of the door smacked Dean's bottom as it closed behind him that he realized he had been standing stock still in the doorway. He edged forward to the floor space between the painting stations and the table of refreshments where a group of people milled about, some holding their selections of food or drink. Dean did a quick headcount and noted himself as the eighth person to arrive.

Having watched the show for the past three seasons, Dean was reasonably certain how this would play out. The contestants would arrive one by one, have some time to do a meet and greet and enjoy the snacks, and while the multitude of cameras positioned around the room filmed them, the editors would use clips of their interviews from their drive in to make it interesting for the viewers. At the thought of the cameras, Dean let himself glance around the room at all the devices. Some were being held by camera operators, some were fixed to the walls. The most impressive was a large, swiveling camera that hung from an expansive track lining the entire ceiling in this particular section of room.

As Dean neared the group, a lanky guy who carried the same height as Dean turned with an open grin on a triangular face held up by a long neck. His brown hair sat limp across his forehead, the ends hanging down to grey eyes. "Well hey there!" One slender hand held a tiny plate of fancy choices from the table, but he jovially extended the other to Dean. "I'm Garth Fitzgerald IV."

Dean took his hand and shook it firmly. "Dean Winchester." He hadn't been planning to use his last name when talking to the other competitors, but when greeted with this Fitz-whatever the fourth name, his own full name just spilled from him without thought. Garth tugged him closer to the rest of the group and started offering introductions as though he had known all of them his whole life.

The Asian kid with the mop of thick, black hair was Kevin. The fairly attractive blue-eyed blond with the Cajun accent and warm hand was Benny. The tiny chick with a glint in her eye that made Dean instantly distrust her was introduced as Ruby. Meg, with the mass of unruly curls, gave him a once over and a smirk that suggested she knew all about his nefarious past, which was a weird feeling. As introductions continued, more people arrived. Dean was sure he had been given all of their names, but he had already forgotten half of them when a hushed air fell over the group as, one by one, they realized the stern woman from the entrance had arrived and was standing on the dais, clipboard still in hand. She didn't say anything to command their attention; she simply stood and waited until they all quieted and looked at her.

"All of your microphones are switched on," she stated without preamble. "I am here to remind you that, as per the contract you signed, everything you have said and will say from the moment you were met at the airport until you leave the competition is the intellectual property of the Canvas of Flesh corporation and may be used in final production of the show. We firmly believe in Freedom of Speech and do not wish to dictate what you say, but it is requested that because the show is broadcasted on public television, please do your best to refrain from using foul language in respect to the editors who will have to remove such words in the editing process. Also, I wish to remind you to please avoid looking at any of the cameras as that footage cannot be used. Thank you." With that, she turned and disappeared through a break in the partitions Dean hadn't noticed before.

"Was it just me, or did the word 'please' seem to be hurting her physically?" The muttered comment that broke the silence came from a smarmy Scottish guy who had asked to go by his last name, Crowley. That name was easy for Dean to remember because the moment they were introduced, his brain supplied Ozzy Osbourne's voice crooning, "Mr. Crowley, what went wrong in your head?" Dean held off with his decision as to whether he liked the guy or not just yet.

The buzz of conversation rose again, and it was still several more minutes until a sharp gasp sounded from Garth, "It's Gabriel Novak."

Dean turned to the dais again, and sure enough, the host of Canvas of Flesh was striding across the dais to position himself on the end farthest from the break in the partitions where the stern woman had gone. His signature cocky grin was already in place, and the lights in the room made his medium-long blond hair shine. From this distance, Dean couldn't see the man's eye color, but even if he hadn't seen the exact shade of whiskey himself on the television screen, he had heard all about them from Sam. The poor kid really was smitten. Good thing Eileen was just as amused about it as Dean was, and if anything, Sam got even more flustered with her good-natured teasing than with Dean's.

Gabriel stood with one hand gripping the other wrist at the waist of his light blue suit, complimented with a metallic tie that Dean suspected matched his eyes perfectly and would show up beautifully on film. The wardrobe people ought to be commended. As Gabriel stood by, two handlers buzzed through and collected plates and glasses from the competitors in the middle of the room. Dean had nothing to hand over. His stomach was too knotted with nerves to eat anything, and though he had eyed the champagne more than once, if his suspicion was right about the first task being set right away, he wanted a clear head.

As well as collecting the plates, the handlers also shooed everyone apart a bit, glancing at cameras and even bodily positioning some of them, making it clear they wanted at least one of the cameras in the room to have an unobstructed view of each face in the crowd. Once the handlers had cleared off, Gabriel started to speak. "Welcome, competitors, to the fourth season of Canvas of Flesh. This year, we're at the Ernest N. Morial Convention Center in The Big Easy itself: New Orleans! I'm your host, Gabriel Novak. And I'd like to introduce you to your judges. She studied at the Royal College of Art and went on to design, build, and paint masterful sets for various ballet companies, including the Paris Opera Ballet and The Royal Ballet: Rowena Macleod!"

As the tall, pale woman with screaming red hair entered the room, wrapped in a stunning, vivid green evening gown, a squeak rose from the only other redhead standing with them. Staring starry-eyed with open faced admiration at the judge was... what was her name? Charlene? No, it was a dude's name. Charlie Brad-something. And she was looking at Rowena the same way Sam looked at Gabriel, like she was harboring a mild infatuation.

"Hello." Even with just that one word, it was obvious her Scottish accent was even thicker than Crowley's. Murmurs of returned greetings drifted from the group before Gabriel continued.

"His work has been seen in several movies, but most notably the 'Lost in the Woods' franchise in which his body painting camouflage work has won three awards, including an Academy Award for Best Costume Design; everybody's favorite silver fox: Cain Knight!"

Cain strode onto the dais wearing a sleek, charcoal suit that picked up the darker strands in his long, graying hair, an ascot tucked under his unbuttoned white shirt, and a playful scowl for Gabriel. "If I'm a silver fox, what does that make you?" His comment earned a smattering of chuckles from the group. He waved his hello, and Gabriel introduced the third judge.

"Finally; he started where you are now and has risen quickly, becoming one of the most sought-after art consultants for LA galas for the rich and famous. Season one's winner, a man with only one name: Balthazar!"

The third judge was new to the judge's panel this year, but as Gabriel mentioned, he wasn't new to the show. Dean had enjoyed not only the artist's incredible work, but his dry wit when he watched the man dominate season one. The slender blond's long legs were enclosed in dark, well-fitting jeans. He wore a black sports jacket over a grey v-neck t-shirt. Despite the fact he seemed woefully underdressed next to the fanciness of the other three on the dais, he fit in with them seamlessly. "It's so good to be here again," he said. "Hello, everyone." His smile and greeting pulled an almost obscene moaning grunt from someone behind Dean along with the returned hellos, but Dean couldn't place who had done it. He wondered if the editors would keep the sound or remove it.

"We're not here to waste any time," Gabriel said, pulling their attention back to himself. "As you can see, we have stations set up for each of you, and your judges want you to use them so they can get to know you a little better. Your first challenge will be to show us a depiction of your childhood. Judges, do you have any beginning words of wisdom?"

Rowena spoke up, "Dinnae be afraid to step out of your normal, comfortable box. For your first paint, you'll be tempted to play it safe. We don't want that. Reach out, challenge yourselves."

"Thank you, Rowena. Competitors, for this challenge, you will be painting your models from the waist up, front only. You have two hours. And your time. Starts. Now!"

With all the handling they had already received, Dean was surprised they weren't told who would be using which station, and as he turned, he saw everyone hurrying to sidle in next to the closest stations they could reach. Not wanting to knock anyone over, Dean didn't get in a rush to push his way toward one. It landed him as one of the last people to get set and start pawing his way through the rainbow of paints and supplies at the shelves on the far end of the room.

He was only vaguely aware of the approach of a model as he quickly set out an array of base paints and kabuki brushes at his station. If there was one thing he knew from three seasons of watching the show, it was that the most important thing was to make sure his model was completely covered in paint, even if he ran out of time for detail work. Once his first round of supplies were spread across his work surface and ready, he looked up to greet his model. She was a third pale-skinned redhead, this one with sparkling brown eyes. She stood before him in a dark blue satin robe that hit her at mid thigh. Dean offered his hand and his name.

"Anna," she replied, giving him that finger-only limp wrist handshake some delicate women like to do. No judging.

"Alright, Anna, let's get to work," Dean said with a nod.

Anna dropped her robe to the black mat where she stood. There was one at each painter's station; the rest of the floor was polished concrete. It made Dean wonder what other things went on at this convention center that it wasn't carpeted, but that was an idle thought that had to be pushed aside. Under the robe, Anna wore black leggings so dark they seemed to suck in the light and smooth, flesh-colored pasties over her nipples. Waist up, Dean reminded himself. He snatched up a brush and the pot of tan paint and got started.

He zoned into his work, cycling through the tan paint at Anna's waist and worked his way across and up with some yellow and green, a bold break into light blue which faded up to darker blue at her neck, then purple and eventually black up her face.

"Can you hold your arms up like this?" Dean asked, showing her the pose he wanted her in. "Perfect." He added more color, letting her drop her arms every so often. Satisfied with the blocking, Dean finally allowed himself to glance over at the large digital clock that stood against the wall opposite the judge's dais. His stomach sank; the blocking had taken him almost forty minutes. Man, he would have to work on his time management. Less than an hour and a half for detail might not be enough. "Keep an eye on the clock and give me a five minute warning, if you would?" he asked Anna. She nodded.

He loaded the air brush with paint and began his first round of adding substance to the blocked painting. While some of the other painters were talking with their models, Anna was blessedly quiet as Dean worked. He didn't think he'd be able to focus on a conversation anyhow; he was far too involved with the painting in front of him. Color after color flew through the air brush. This was what he used at the auto body shop, and he was very comfortable with it.

Time ticked down, and Dean was only vaguely aware of Gabriel calling out the halfway mark. He was now switching back and forth between the air brush and paint brushes with the smoothest tips he'd ever seen. Nothing else in this room mattered but him, his supplies, and his model. At Anna's five minute warning, Dean was feeling good again. He was wrapping up the red glow on Anna's arms above her head when she softly spoke to him. "Five minutes, Dean." He left his eyes drop from her arms to her painted face, and the shock of red hair in all of that black made him think she needed a wig.

"Drop your arms; I'll be right back." He dashed to the wall that displayed styrofoam heads covered in wigs alongside the extensive shelves of props, prosthetics, and extra bits. Dean selected a short, black wig that would hopefully blend into the blackened sky he had made of Anna's face and arms. He hurried it back to her and hesitated. Her hands were covered in paint, and he had no idea how to put a wig on someone and make it look good. As though he had shouted it from the rooftops, a handler stepped in.

"For the first few episodes, we're here to help with things like this," she explained, deftly pulling Anna's hair back and bundling it at her neck. "But as you progress -if you progress- you will be expected to do this yourself." She took the wig from Dean's hands and snugged it over Anna's hair, hiding the red within the slick, black tresses. Dean thanked her as she made her retreat, but she didn't answer or even acknowledge him any further.

"One minute, painters!" Gabriel's voice rang through the room. "Sixty seconds left to put the final touches on your childhood!"

Dean bit his lip. He felt like he was done, but at the same time, he wondered if he should go right up to the last second. On a whim, he snatched up a brush and paint and added a tiny fire right at the edge of Anna's black leggings. Mistake. He rapidly moved from red to orange to yellow to black and back through again as Gabriel called out, "Five! Four!" Not done, not done. Paint faster. "Three! Two!" Dammit, what had he been thinking to add this? "One! Brushes down!"

His brush hit the work surface with a clatter, but Dean was careful to close up his paints and set them down neatly. He looked at Anna, at the childhood he had painted on her. The pressure he had been feeling for the past two hours seemed to melt away, and it was then Dean could feel all the tension he had been holding within himself. Without a doubt, he hadn't been that stressed in an incredibly long time, but it was suddenly over.

Well, not quite. The judges were stepping down from the dais and were making their rounds through the room with Gabriel and a cameraman. Even with them taking only a few minutes per contestant, it would take them a half an hour or more to do their jobs, then afterwards, they still had to confer to decide who won this round. Dean, being at one of two stations farthest from the dais, was the very last to be judged. As the quintet approached, Dean had Anna raise her arms above her head, elbows bent to stack one arm on top of the other, showing her inner forearms toward the judges.

"So Dean, tell us about your childhood," Gabriel said, sounding for all the world like a quack Freudian shrink. Cain rolled his eyes. It wasn't the first, third, or even seventh time Gabriel had made the joke.

"My mother died in a house fire when I was four." His opening statement earned murmured regrets, but he hurried past them. "After that, my dad could never really find a place that felt like home without her, so he moved us around a lot. Me and my brother pretty much grew up on the road." He pointed at the black, 1967 Chevy Impala he had painted in the center of Anna's torso, driving away from the viewer on a long road edged with farm land and disappearing into a horizon that started with daylight on her chest and faded to starry darkness the further up her face it went. "We never had a house after that, but we'd stay in hotels, sometimes for weeks on end while Dad scouted out odd jobs before making enough money to move on." The arm closest to Anna's head was painted with an old, worn-looking hotel. Her other arm was a neon sign that had NO in dull grey and VACANCY in glowing red, the red seeping down to join the first arm to show a cohesive image.

"Dean, this is amazing," Balthazar said.

"You poor dears," Rowena put in. "How old was your brother when you mother passed?"

"Six months," Dean replied. "I carried him out of the house, away from the fire."

Rowena gasped prettily and placed elegantly manicured fingers to her chest in horror.

Cain got down to business. "I like that your painting is portraying a full story, and with that story, the whole piece is very clean. I mean, you can even read the licence plate on the car. Your attention to detail is very telling for what kind of artist you are. There's just one thing I don't like."

Dean's nerves made him feel like he was vibrating, and he quirked an inquisitive eyebrow, waiting for Cain to continue.

"That." Cain pointed at the fire sitting at the front edge of the road, roaring out of the waistline of Anna's leggings. "Yours is not a Biblical story. Did you have to set her bush on fire?"

"I hear they make an ointment for that sort of thing," Gabriel quipped.

"I, I uh..." Dean flushed scarlet and had to think fast. _Give 'em more sob story; they seem to like that._ "It's supposed to be the fire my dad drove away from, what that took away the love of his life and basically turned him into a nomad, even with two kids."

"I get that, Dean, but the execution of a fire coming out the front of her pants is just sloppy. I feel like you could have portrayed that in another way. It also looks like you didn't give it the same amount of time and detail as the rest of your piece, like it was an afterthought."

 _Shit_. "Yeah, uh, you're probably right. Thank you."

The host and judges took themselves back to the dais. The pulse in Dean's ears in response to the well-earned critique kept him from fully hearing Gabriel telling them that the judges were going to take some time to deliberate. With that, the three judges filed out through the break in the partitions, Gabriel close behind them.

The participants were left in a quiet room with their models, looking around at each other, none of them seeming to be willing to break the silence. This was a part of the competition that wasn't depicted on the show. Truly, this whole thing was starting to ruin the magic of television for Dean. He leaned in close to Anna. "'Bout how long does this normally take?" he asked quietly.

Before Anna could answer, the stern woman arrived on the dais again. "Models, keep your places; you'll be called back individually for photography before you're released. Contestants, step this way and put yourselves in a line, facing me. No, squeeze in closer. Yes, like that. The judges will be back out shortly to give you their decision. You wait here until then." She whirled around and left the row of twelve in silence once more.

"Alright, can somebody tell us who the hell this broad thinks she is?" Crowley's fulsome voice cut through the silence. Dean was beginning to form his opinion of the man, and it wasn't good.

"Her name is Naomi Angle," came a reply from one of the models standing at the painting stations. Dean glanced over to place the voice with a face. It was a woman covered with elaborately painted bubbles, the details of iridescent sheen portrayed beautifully, and wearing a wild purple wig. "She not only _thinks_ she's the director, but she actually is. She works hard to oversee every detail of production to make sure CoF puts out a quality product each year. You'll do well to show her some respect." Wide eyes shifted between competitors and models alike. A layer of tension settled over everybody, and no one else spoke until Gabriel led the judges back into the room.

Dean watched Gabriel make a silent exchange with a cameraman, grin widely, and open his mouth to announce, "Judges, have you made your decision?"

"Aye, we have," Rowena answered. "The contestants with the top three paintings are... Cassie." A hiss of "yessss" sounded from a small, dark woman with a mass of curls to rival Meg's. "Your family dinner painting was so full of beautiful colors and rich details. It looked good enough to eat, love." The two women shared a smile. "Garth." The lanky guy was standing next to Dean, and Dean felt him jerk against his arm in surprise. "Your wee sock puppets are simply adorable, and the judges loved that perfect blend of realism and whimsy that so many are unable to pull off." Dean nudged Garth and gave him a companionable clap on the shoulder. "And Dean." Hearing his own name froze Dean, and he looked to Rowena, knowing that shock was written across his features. "Despite your... unfortunate placement of bush fire, the painting as a whole told a well-detailed, comprehensive story that was so well done, we didn't need your explanation to know what was happening."

"All three of you produced wonderful works," Balthazar picked up. "But only one can be named the winner of this mini challenge. The person who gave us the best depiction of their childhood and will be granted a boon going into the next challenge is..."

The pause went on for longer than Dean thought should be strictly necessary. He had always assumed that was only something that happened in the editing process to mess with the viewers, but apparently it happened in real time to mess with the competitors too.

"Cassie."

A squee pierced the room, and Cassie quickly slapped a hand over her mouth to smother it. A round of applause was started in which all contestants, judges, and host joined. "Congratulations, Cassie," Gabriel said. "Your advantage will be announced at the beginning of the next challenge. For now, all of you can head outside to the vans that are waiting to take you to the house where you'll be staying for the duration of the competition. You'll be given a couple hours to relax before being brought back for the next challenge, after which one of you will be chosen as the day's winner and one of you will be going home. See you in a bit!"

Gabriel waved them off. The judges waved and said their goodbyes also before slipping out their own exit.

Dean looked around at everything, feeling a little dazed. He noticed the models were gone. A handler was standing by, holding the door open and smiling them through. He saw that somewhere in all of this, the table of food and champagne had been cleared away. Damn. If anything, he was hungrier now than when he had arrived.

Before most of the others made it out of the room and back out into the main hall, he heard the sound of a voice he was really beginning to loathe. "Where the hell is my case!?"

"The bags have already been transported to the house, Fergus."

"The name is Crowley," the unctuous voice bit back. Dean rolled his eyes. He really hoped this guy wouldn't stay very long. They hadn't been around each other for more than a few hours at this point, and Dean was already tired of him.

The dozen competitors filed out and headed toward the glass doors at the front of the building. Once in the hallway, Dean lengthened his stride to catch up with Cassie. He placed a hand on her shoulder, pulling her attention up to him. "Hey. Congrats on the first win," he offered. She smiled up brightly, and Dean was now close enough to see the smooth, flawlessness of her skin. She was quite beautiful.

"Thanks!" Cassie replied, her excitement evident. "Oh, and congrats on being in the top three with me. Guess I need to keep a close eye on you, huh?" She nudged his upper arm with her shoulder, and they both laughed as they exited the convention center to gather with the others. The pair of huge vans were big enough to seat nine each, not counting the driver and front passenger seats. They were instructed to split six per van, and when Dean climbed into the first van, he realized why they were so big. Cameras were rigged into the corners and the roof, pointing back from the front seat, and basically covering every bit of space in the van to make sure they wouldn't miss a single comment or facial expression from anyone inside the vehicle. It was a wonder the cameras didn't see each other, but Dean couldn't think of a single moment in his years of watching Canvas of Flesh in which he noticed a camera in the background.

Much to his dismay, Crowley ended up in the same van. Just seeing his face in close proximity was enough for Dean to close his ears and completely block out everything that was being said by everyone to simply stare out the window for the drive to the house. He watched as they left the press of the city proper and drove parallel to the Mississippi for a bit, heading South to where the driver informed them they'd be staying in a house in East Riverside. The houses were somewhat densely nestled together, but the yards didn't shy away from trees. Dean was greeted with more and more magnolias, some dripping with the lace of Spanish moss. The others in the van seemed more interested in conversing with each other than paying any attention to their trip, but this was a treat Dean rarely got. He was typically the one behind the driver's seat, and as such, he tended to put his focus on the road, not on the beauty of his surroundings. He tried to soak it all in, hoping to use some of it as inspiration later in the show.

Later. That was assuming he'd make it through the first full challenge looming later today. None of them knew what they would be doing. Dean may have made it into the top three for the mini challenge, but at any time, he could choke and screw up enough to be sent home. He aggressively tamped down the nerves that were trying to claw up his insides again. Sammy believed in him; he had to believe in himself.

The vans -and the three, _three!_ camera cars in the caravan- slowed to a stop in front of a house that had to have been standing since the 1800s, but it had been carefully preserved (or renovated; Dean didn't know houses like he did cars). Then again, a good many of the houses they had passed in this area could boast the same. Handlers and cameramen poured from the camera cars, but when Crowley reached for the inside handle of the van door, the driver stopped him.

"Give them a chance to set up, yeah?"

"I didn't come all this way to cool my heels in this bloody van," Crowley retorted.

The driver was unimpressed. "Look, buddy. Like it or not, this is what you signed up for. You wanted to be here, so you're here. Putting together a television show takes time. If you get out of this van right now, you're going to slow things down for everybody and cement yourself as a colossal dick."

"Too late," came a murmur. Crowley whipped around to see who it was, but by the way his angrily narrowed eyes shifted from one person to the next, he was unable to figure it out.

As he glared at each of the other contestants in turn, the van doors were thrown open, startling him out of his quest to find the culprit. He visibly collected himself and was the first out of the van. As the rest emerged, Dean noticed the six from the other van were also pouring out, but then his eyes were all for the massive house before him. Everyone crowded up the front walkway and let themselves inside.

_Voiceover:_  
_Dean: Holy crap, this is a hell of a lot better than all those hotel rooms throughout the years._

_Crowley: Not exactly Buckingham Palace. But I suppose it'll do for now._

_Meg: This... wow, I am home. If I get cut early, I may just hide in a closet and keep living here._

Dean wandered slowly through the house, taking in as many details as he could. Sammy was going to be green when he watched the show and saw the house for himself. He quickly deduced the bedrooms were on the second story, but he wasn't sure he'd be spending much time in his room when he laid eyes on the shining, blue gem that was the swimming pool in the back yard. Yep. He had been right to pack his trunks.

Satisfied with his little personal tour, Dean wandered back to the front living area where the bags had been set out for everyone to grab. His was the only one left, which meant he probably had last pick of the bedrooms upstairs. Unconcerned, he hefted the straps onto his shoulder and made his way up the stairs. What he found at the top of the case made him hesitate. There were only six bedrooms; he was going to have to share with someone. Given that he was the last person up, he had a sinking feeling he knew who he'd be sharing with. Sure enough, the final unclaimed bed was in a room with...

"Can you believe there are only two bathrooms on this floor?" Crowley said as Dean entered the room. "Two, between twelve people. Bad enough we have to share rooms, but the bathroom situation is cause for complaint. It's insane they expect us to live like this."

Dean took a deep breath and discarded several choice replies, none of which would improve Crowley's mood. Just this one bedroom was nicer than most of the hotels he had stayed in growing up. Some of them hadn't even had clean water coming through the pipes, so as long as it had that, Dean didn't care about sharing the bathroom either. He opted for silence as he tossed his duffel onto the bed Crowley hadn't claimed with his Fendi suitcase. The small man already had it unzipped and was transferring his belongings to hangers. Dean wondered if Crowley was being presumptuous with unpacking already. By the end of the day, one of them would be going home, not even permitted to spend the night in this amazing house. He thought it somewhat cruel, really, that the show runners would allow them to go to the house and dangle it before the person who wouldn't be staying. Truth be told, he was hoping that person would be Crowley, but since Dean hadn't paid any attention to the other man's painting style earlier that day, he had no idea where he ranked next to the other painters. Crowley hadn't made it into the top three, but for all Dean knew, he could have been number four. There was just no telling.

Dean suddenly realized Crowley had been rattling on the whole time, and he had no idea what the guy had been saying. Despite the way his voice seemed to scrape the inside of Dean's skull, the actual words were relatively easy to ignore.

"...had the decency to provide palatable selec--"

"Okay, cool. I'll catch you later," Dean interrupted. He turned from the scowl it earned and left the room. _Yes, how dare I?_ He thought with an eyeroll. His steps took him back downstairs to seek out either solitude or someone who could possibly offer better conversation.

.oOo.

"And remember," Naomi added, standing at the door before they entered the Canvas of Flesh studio, "At the end, all of you will be interviewed before you go back to the house for the evening." Her final comment was met with nods. With one last cold look at all of them, she left down the hall, but Dean would bet a favorite body part she was only heading toward a different way into the studio. He shook his head; it felt as though Naomi had taken away at least ten degrees with her icy presence.

"Horrid woman," Crowley quipped.

 _Look who's talking_ , Dean thought, but unlike some people, he knew when to keep his mouth shut. It was a bad idea to make enemies here.

Everyone filed through the door and moved to stand in a line to face Gabriel where he stood on the dais.

_Voiceover_  
_Meg: We walk back into the studio for the main challenge, and on the platform with Gabriel is this shelf of pictures. Are we about to turn our models into instruments?_

"Welcome back, painters!" Gabriel greeted them. Murmured replies drifted from the group. "While painting is a visual art, there is something to be said about audio art: music. Up here with me are pictures of twelve musical instruments. In just a moment, you are going to choose one of these pictures to inspire a full body, front and back piece on your models."

_Voiceover_  
_Crowley: Less than half of these can truly be called proper musical instruments. It physically pains me to see there's virtually nothing one would hear in a symphony orchestra._

"Cassie," Gabriel turned his shining grin to the slender woman. She smiled back. "Since you won our first mini challenge, your advantage is that you get to pick your instrument first. Please step up and relieve the shelf of the picture of your choosing."

Cassie strode confidently to the shelf and made her selection. "Grand piano," she said, taking the picture and putting herself back into the line.

"Alrighty," Gabriel answered. He lifted a paint bucket from atop the shelf. Dean could see the handles of paint brushes sticking out. Gabriel drew one, looked at it, and turned it so the room -and, more importantly, the cameras- could see it. "Ash."

"Aw, yeah," the mulleted man cheered. He bounded to the shelf. "Drum."

_Voiceover_  
_Ash: 'Bout to get the beat goin' now! B'ddduuddduudduumm!!_

"Ruby."

"Sax."

"Jo."

"I'll take the harp."

_Voiceover_  
_Jo: I'm about to make the prettiest piece right now. I'll show you, Mom. I can do pretty._

"Benny."

"Trumpet."

"Charlie."

"Marimba."

The names got called, instruments were flying from the shelf, and Dean's choices were getting slimmer and slimmer. All of his top picks were gone, and his bottom picks were leaving too until it was down to two instruments.

"Dean."

"Guess I'll take the flute." Trying to keep a raised spirit in his voice, he lifted the stiff cardboard picture and resumed his place in line.

Gabriel faced the last person, not bothering to pull the lone paintbrush from the bucket. "So that leaves..."

_Voiceover_  
_Crowley: An accordion!? Are you bloody kidding me? Who in their right mind calls that a real instrument?_

"Painters, you have five hours to use your chosen instruments to inspire you to paint your models. And your time. Starts. Now!" The painters scattered between the stations they had chosen earlier in the day and the supply shelves. "Go! Make music with your colors!"

Dean was one who went straight to the supply shelves. He used the cardboard picture of the flute as a sort of tray to load up paints to carry to his station.

_Voiceover_  
_Dean: The flute is not at all what I want. There's only one... fluter...? No, that's not right. Flautist. One flautist I know of, and that's Ian Anderson of Jethro Tull. So I kinda latch onto that and start formulating a plan._

He grabbed a sketch book at the station and got a few ideas on paper. None of them thrilled him, and by the time his model approached, which was only a few minutes into the allotted time, Dean had started and discarded several ideas. He barely caught the flash of the blue robe out of the corner of his eye and didn't even look up from his sketch book to say, "Might as well keep that on for now and stay somewhat warm. I still have no clue what I'm doing."

"Okay." The response surprised him in that he had been expecting a woman's voice. Dean looked up from his most recent sketch to see a skinny guy with a crooked smile which only got bigger at Dean's wide eyes. He chuckled. "You can always tell a painter's first time with a male model."

"That obvious, huh?" Dean rubbed at the back of his neck, a little embarrassed over his transparency.

"Only when you know what to look for." The model gestured to the sketch book. "You only have five hours; don't let me keep you from it."

"Oh! Right." Dean hunched over his book to start another idea. He placed a limit on himself as his pencil graced the paper. No matter what this one became, he wouldn't draw another. He would make a choice, and he would start painting.

With an unhappy sigh, Dean dropped the book on the station. He wasn't feeling particularly inspired right now, but he had to start putting paint on his model. He took up a pot of white paint in one hand and a long-handled brush in the other.

"Ready or not," he murmured. The model started to open his robe but stopped when Dean quickly transferred his brush to hold with the paint and offered his hand in introduction.

"Doesn't seem right for you to get naked for me before we know each others' names."

The model laughed and took his hand. "Agreed, Dean. I'm Samandriel."

"Salmon... Sammo... M&M... Eh. I'm gonna call you Alfie. Now you can bare all."

Alfie laughed again and slipped out of his robe, revealing flesh tone short-shorts that clung like a second skin. "I think the show would have a different rating if I 'bared all.'"

Dean smirked and twirled his paintbrush in a little circle, the universal gesture to get someone to turn around. As Alfie complied, a small part of Dean's brain supplied that the motion hadn't been ASL for "turn around." He had to shake it away. Now was not the time to mentally practice speaking to Eileen; he had to focus. With Alfie's bare back waiting as his canvas, Dean loaded his brush with paint and started roughly outlining Ian Anderson's classic playing pose.

 

 

Somehow, as the image took shape, the idea shifted. In Dean's mind's eye, it was no longer the classic rock flautist on Alfie's back. He blinked and stood back for a moment before a large smile lit his face. In a rush, he wiped away the figure that dominated Alfie's back and painted it again, smaller this time. Then he added another figure and another, rough outlines, all. He spun Alfie around and outlined a large chalice with a flute sticking up out of it.

That was enough; it was time for color. Dean was working in tunnel vision, blocking out all outside sounds and images until, suddenly, he heard his name spoken by Cain Knight.

Dean's stomach clenched, and he blinked at the clock, only to be suddenly relieved he still had over two hours. Cain was still talking. "Tell us about your piece. How did a flute inspire you to paint a snake on your model's arm?"

"Oh, um," Dean gathered his thoughts. He had been so focused, it was hard to shift gears. "The flute is a traditional Celtic instrument, often played during celebrations. It inspired me to depict the annual observation of Beltane. Given that it's a fertility rite, I wanted to show images that symbolize both the masculine and the feminine."

"And the snake is...?"

"Both, actually. It's phallic, which, obviously." Dean offered a cocky grin which all three men returned but garnered an eye roll from Rowena. "And its ability to devour its prey whole is a feminine quality."

Gabriel guffawed at that, and at Rowena's expression, Dean quickly backpedaled. "I'm kidding! I'm kidding! Actually, it's the ability to shed its skin that makes the snake a symbol of new life and new beginnings."

The quartet nodded thoughtfully. "Well, Dean, I wish you good luck with the remainder of your time," Cain finished before leading the others to the next painting station. As she sashayed away, Rowena looked over her shoulder, and Dean wasn't sure what to make of the red-lipsticked smirk.

_Voiceover_  
_Dean: Never in my life have I ever been so thankful for having helped my little brother in studying for his Comparative Religions class. Thanks, Sammy. I owe you one._

"Making friends left and right, aren't you?" Alfie asked.

Dean shrugged. "One of my many charms." He bent over his work on the snake again. "Hey, can you give me time checks every half hour?"

"Sure." They fell into silence once more as Dean poured himself into his work.

.oOo.

This was it. It was time. Dean stood as one of twelve competitors who had been moved to another faux-walled room in the studio. This one had a stage with a catwalk, a long dais for the painters, and a smaller yet taller dais with chairs at a table hung with the Canvas of Flesh sign for the judges. Gabriel stood between the two groups of people.

"Well, painters, you made it through your first major challenge of the competition!" Gabriel chirped.

Soft, obligatory applause sounded from those who stood anxiously, waiting for their pieces to be judged.

"Before we call out our first model, let me reintroduce our judges. Rowena Mcleod."

Rowena waggled her fingers and blew a dainty kiss to the painters.

"Cain Knight."

A nod of thick, wavy, grey hair.

"And Balthazar."

"Good luck, painters," he said with a wink and a small salute of two fingers.

Gabriel took over again. "Painters, tonight, you had to use a musical instrument to inspire you to do a full body, front and back painting on your models. Let's see what you gave us. We'll start with... Kevin. You had the guitar."

The lights lowered except for a dim illumination of the stage and catwalk. Dean could see the outline of a model taking the stage and advancing the catwalk. Once they were posed, the lights came up, and Kevin's work was revealed.

_Voiceover_  
_Kevin: I actually kicked myself the moment I took the guitar off the shelf. My childhood piece had a good-sized section dedicated to the cello, and here I was with another stringed instrument to paint._

The painting split the model's torso down the center. His right arm was that of a female dancer in a traditional flamenco dress, a fan held in his hand as a prop. The dancer's face was on his neck, and her skirt cascaded down his leg. His left arm was the male counterpart in his own traditional suit. The dancers were reaching toward each other across the model's torso, and somehow Kevin had played with depth perception to where it didn't look odd. Between them and in the distance, a guitarist sat in a chair, obviously playing the tune to which they were dancing. It was a night scene, but it was brightly lit with paper lanterns, and swooping architecture put them in Spain.

When the model turned around, his back was adorned with an elaborate Spanish guitar, meticulously detailed and surrounded by roses. It was a beautiful piece, and Dean felt his heart sink. If this is what his competition looked like, he was so screwed.

"Kevin, tell us about your work," Gabriel prompted.

"Like most Asian kids, I'm a classically trained musician, and when I saw the guitar, I was immediately inspired by the Ernesto Lecuona piece 'Malaguena.' It was originally written for piano, but it gained popularity as a guitar solo. I can't think of many musicians who escaped high school without touching on this tune at least once," he ended with a small, personal laugh and uneasy smile.

Dean shook his head. How Kevin could possibly be nervous about such an outstanding painting was beyond him, and the judges echoed his sentiment before dismissing the model. Dean caught a more confident expression on Kevin's face before Gabriel moved on.

Meg's french horn inspired Christmas. Charlie's marimba inspired the pit section of a marching band; apparently she had a best friend who she supported and attended the performances for, but she herself had had no desire to be in the band.

The lights came up on a forth model, and Dean wasn't the only one to choke on snickers that threatened to come out. Ash had turned his model into a rock and roll stage complete with multicolored stage lights pointing up across her midsection and pyrotechnics shooting up her arms.

"Ash, tell us about your work."

"Ain't nothin' other than a full setup would do when I got the drum. Anytime you listen to music that's worth listenin' to, you got a trap set. Preferably with double bass." Ash nodded as though agreeing with his own words.

"Ash..." Cain looked from model to painter. "We're all thinking it, so I'm just going to say it. What in the world made you think it would be okay to turn both of her breasts into bass drums?"

More giggles erupted from the competitors, and Ash wilted.

"It's just..." Rowena paused. "It's goofy."

"Not only is the placement bordering on obscene," Balthazar put in, "but when working with the curves of the human body, you have to be aware of your line placement. You centered the drums on the tips of her breasts with no regard for what it would look like as a cohesive piece. They look wonky from the rest of the setup."

The model turned around to show the rock stage again, this time from the perspective of the drummer, looking out at the crowd. The judges had more positive things to say about that, and then Ash's model also left the stage.

_Voiceover_  
_Ash: Well then. That wuddn't what I was expectin'._

The next model was Crowley's, and Dean watched in confusion as their silhouette reached the end of the catwalk and ducked down to form a ball of shadow. The lights came up to reveal the model crouched with her feet as close together as she could get them, her chin hovering above her knees, and her hands placed flat on the floor beside her feet. She looked uncomfortable with the pose, like she couldn't hold it for long. Her shins and lower arms were painted black and white to look like piano keys, her knees, shoulders, and up were a marbled red, and her face had odd white spots scattered across it. As everyone stared, she carefully unfolded herself and stood, placing her arms behind her back to hide them. The rest of her body was nothing more than black, red, and white horizontal stripes.

"Crowley, tell us ab-"

"You turned her into an accordion." Cain's interruption pulled everyone's eyes to him. He actually looked a little angry. "You were told to use your instrument as inspiration, and you just turned the whole woman into an accordion. How is this inspiring?"

"It's not," Crowley replied. "The accordion isn't inspiring; not in the least. Turn around, dear." He spoke the last to his model. She complied. "There's your inspiration. The accordion is popular in polka music, which came from Bohemia, which is now the Czech Republic. So here you have Prague Castle, a tasty little trdelník, and wild mushrooms, all with the national flag waving proudly. Inspiring." He bit off his last word and glared at the judges.

The judges, for their part, silently exchanged glances with each other. Without any feedback at all, Cain looked back to the annoyed contestant. "Thank you, Crowley." The model was dismissed, and Crowley stood with his peers, bristling at the lack of any further critique of his work.

Next came Ruby's model whose abstract, jazzy appearance inspired by the saxophone drew appreciation from the judges. With the lute as her instrument, Bela turned her model into an aged, 15th century Italian painting. She confessed to considering over-applying her paint in order to make it crack so as to add to the effect but decided against it in case the judges thought it was on accident. It turned out to be a wise decision.

Jo's harp was held by a mermaid. Music notes flowed from the strings, but as the eye followed across the model's skin, they morphed from notes into wicked-looking fishing hooks. "My daddy was a hunter, and I would go with him a lot. Mom said it was turning me into a tomboy, and she would playfully tell him that she didn't have a little girl 'cause I didn't like pretty things." Jo looked wistfully at her model where he stood at the end of the catwalk, and Dean looked too. From this far away, he shouldn't have been able to see them, but Dean could swear the contrast of white clouds on his face against the blues of the water painted on his chest brought out the blue of his eyes. "Daddy died in a hunting accident, and I was gonna paint an angel playing the harp and prove to my mom that I can do pretty things, but that felt too cliché. Then I remembered that sirens are pretty too... and they bring death..." She trailed off, but Gabriel, ever the professional, picked up the silence and broke it.

"Judges?" Opinions were given, and Dean let himself look over Jo's work while agreeing with every word. As the model turned in his dismissal, Dean suddenly realized he hadn't been looking at the paint at all. He had been admiring the way the model's hip bones had jutted above the short-shorts Jo had all but made disappear with her application of paint. When Dean's name was spoken, he briefly thought he was being called out for staring at the model, and he felt his cheeks flame before Gabriel continued.

"You had the flute." The lights dimmed to allow Alfie to take the stage and pose with his back to the judges. Dean had instructed him to start with Ian Anderson's iconic pose with his knee bent and foot balanced against his other leg, then transition into standing with his feet together and circling his arms over his head to signify the Goddess during Dean's description of the scene. "Dean, tell us about your work."

"When I first got the flute, I thought of none other than Ian Anderson, famed flautist of the band Jethro Tull. But as I painted him onto Al-" He coughed against his mistake; they weren't supposed to use their models' names, doubly so when it was a nickname. "-my model's back, my inspiration took a hard turn, and he became one of many dancing around a Beltane fire." Alfie shifted into his second pose.

"This, Dean," Balthazar said, motioning at the painting. "This is how you paint a fire. It's exquisite."

"The shadows being thrown off of the dancers give your painting movement and life," Cain added.

Rowena waited to speak until after Alfie turned around. He stood with his arms down now, showing off the snake the judges had inquired over earlier and the white stag rearing up his other arm. His legs were encircled with multiple couples sensually intertwined with each other, suggesting much but revealing nothing. "My, Dean, I would not have expected you to know much of Celtic fertility rites. Tell me, why did you put a flute in the cup?"

Dean lifted a brow. Something told him Rowena was judging him on more than just his painting abilities. "The _chalice_ is a feminine symbol," he put emphasis on the word to correct her, and he received a smile and approving nod as he continued. "While, ideally, I would have put an athame in it instead, this challenge was for musical instruments, so I stuck with my flute as the phallic, or masculine, symbol." Rowena nodded again, a knowing light in her tilted eyes.

Alfie was sent off the stage, and Gabriel announced Garth's instrument as the harmonica before the lights went down again. His model didn't have a fancy pose, but when the lights came back up, Dean saw she didn't need one. Garth had turned her torso into a dirt path lined on one side with an old fence with faded white-washed posts, some of them missing or tilted. The figure of a little boy wearing a straw hat and rolled-up overalls traversed the path, dragging a stick along for a scruffy dog to chase. A tree loomed over a far-off bend, lending its shade to the path, the branches covering the model's breasts. Garth had paid attention to the curves of her body, and his lines didn't look skewed. When the model turned around, the scene on her back was closer up. The boy was now sitting on a wooden porch which leaned drunkenly with age. He was looking up in admiration at a man who was covering the bottom half of his face with cupped hands, the tiniest hint of the edge of a harmonica poking out the side. The dog lay sleeping between their feet.

"I call this 'Advice from a Wise, Old Black Man,'" Garth said.

"Isn't that a white card in Cards Against Humanity?" asked Gabriel.

Balthazar leaned forward to better see Gabriel around Cain and Rowena. "Gabey, you know you'll have to reword that if you want it to make the final cut."

Gabriel shot Balthazar finger guns and tried again. "That sounds like an answer card to a game I like to play." He then shrugged. "Eh, it doesn't need to be in the show." His attention went back to Garth. "Tell us more."

Garth's eyes darted between Balthazar and Gabriel, looking uncertain. He took a moment to collect himself then looked to his model as he explained his piece. "So that's little Howie. Every so often, he'll play hooky from school and head down the dirt path to see ol' Curtis to listen to him play the blues on his harmonica and to listen to stories. Curtis don't give him no flack about skipping school 'cause there's lessons you can learn about life that you won't ever learn in a classroom."

"Garth, I'm sorry," Balthazar started. Garth visibly deflated.

_Voiceover_  
_Garth: What??_

"I'm sorry that I cannot come up with proper words to tell you how masterfully this was done. The line work, the details. Bravo." Garth's face split into a wide grin.

_Voiceover_  
_Garth: Whew! He did that on purpose to scare me. It worked, Balthazar. It worked. Don't do it again!  Haha._

Rowena took over. "I truly appreciate when I can look at a piece and understand the story without it having to be told. This is one of those pieces. I absolutely love it."

Cain said little, but "It's very clean; be proud of yourself" was enough to make Garth's smile even bigger. Dean thought he looked like he was going to hurt his face if he kept it up.

"Cassie," Gabriel announced after Garth's model cleared the stage. Dean watched Cassie turn nervous brown eyes to the host. Nervous? Why? "You chose the grand piano."

The lights dimmed yet again, and Cassie's model took the stage. Once they were posed at the end of the catwalk, the lights came up to show her posed with her arms elegantly spread and curved and her right foot turned sideways with her left heel snugged against her right instep. She looked like a ballerina readying herself to dance. Along with the painting, it made sense. A little girl flounced in an over-sized tutu next to a man playing a piano. The model wore a bald cap, and her face was painted with high fashion makeup that included sweeping wings from her eyes that turned into a cap of feathers that covered her head.

_Voiceover_  
_Ruby: Oops. Look like Cassie didn't get the memo that you never leave unpainted skin on your model._

"Cassie, tell us about your work."

"Michele wants to be a ballerina when she grows up. Every time she hears her daddy play the piano, her dreams become reality, and she is that ballerina."

The model used the words as her cue and twirled into a new pose that set a toe out, put her arms above her head, and turned to reveal her back to the judges.

"Oh, darling, what have you done?" Balthazar muttered.

What, indeed?

_Voiceover_  
_Ruby: Hahahaha!! Forget the exposed skin! What is that??_

The bald cap was peeling up, the whole thing was bunching, and the face Cassie had painted on it was beyond distorted. The rest of the model was painted as a full body ballerina, presumably 'Michele' as she saw herself in her mind's eye when she danced to her father's piano music with feet and legs encased in slippers and winding ribbon, her arms in lacy gloves, and her torso wearing a glittering bodysuit. It was lovely. But that face.

"Cassie, I don't think I need to tell you that if you aren't one _thousand_ percent certain of your skill, you shouldn't even _think_ about touching a bald cap," Cain stressed. "You ruined your piece with this."

"After your work in the mini challenge, I expected much better from you," Rowena added. "But this is a monstrosity."

Cassie looked close to tears as she nodded and trained her eyes to the floor. The model was dismissed.

_Voiceover_  
_Ash: I know mine was bad, but the judges were brutal as hell on her. Damn, nobody deserves that._

"And finally, we come to Benny," Gabriel kept the same, upbeat tone of voice in his announcement as though the judges hadn't just finished ripping the mini challenge winner to shreds. "You had the trumpet."

One last model got positioned in the near darkness at the end of the catwalk, allowing the lights to come back up. A spray of colorful feathers adorned her head, offshoots of the Mardi Gras mask Benny had painted across her face. Her body was a festive parade marching down Bourbon Street. One could almost hear the slither of shining, plastic beads that covered her arms, thrown from parade floats.

"Benny, tell us about your work," Gabriel said for the twelfth -and last- time that day.

"Well, I was just tickled to get the trumpet, 'cause it made me think of home." His accent was thick as he addressed the judges. "Anytime anyone hears the words 'Mardi Gras' they think of Nawlins, and that time'a year always gets the tourists clammourin' in for parties and parades. And those parades always have lively jazz music played by trumpets."

At a small gesture from Benny, the model turned around. Suddenly, the force of colors was muted. The parade was gone, and it was a dim, quiet street corner with somber colors. A lone trumpeter stood there, playing soulfully. His trumpet case was open next to him, and a scant handful of coins sat in it.

"What gets me, though, is the same people who are so praised and uplifted during these festivals can turn around and play that same instrument with the same talent in the exact same place, but if it's not a party, they're largely ignored."

Praise flowed from the judges for both his painting style and the story he told with it. Benny accepted it modestly with a nod of thanks and a small smile, but nothing too cocky. Dean approved. It stirred a bit of interest in him for the blue-eyed Cajun.

"Thank you, painters," Gabriel tore through his thoughts again. Dean had to blink and redirect his attention. He also took a slight moment to kick himself mentally. What the hell was he doing? It seemed like he had only one mode right now: hyper-focused on his work or hyper-focused on good looking men. Granted, he had been checking out Cassie too, earlier in the day, but she hadn't attracted him to the point of distraction. "If you will take your leave and wait in the Painter's Lounge, the judges will deliberate, and you will be called back in."

Dean looked to where Gabriel was gesturing: an opening in the partion walls where stood a handler to guide them to their next destination. As one, the line of competitors turned and trooped off the dais.

The Painter's Lounge was swanky. There was no other word for it. It had been carpeted for them and filled with several different pieces of posh furniture. Some were stools, some were light blue couches of varying sizes. A quick count told Dean that unless the painters got real friendly and took the term "love seat" literally, there would not be enough spots for twelve people to sit down. Being the third person into the room, that wasn't a problem for him, though. He immediately took a stool and waited to see where everyone else would go, then he would decide if he wanted to be social.

Once the last person was in, Charlie, as it happened, a sliding door closed them into the room. Dean lifted from his stool and gestured for her to take it. Charlie laughed, but she plopped onto the seat.

"Who said chivalry is dead? Good job, Dean." She punched his shoulder.

"Yeah, I'm such a knight in shining armor. Just call me Lancelot."

Charlie smirked, "Well, I'm more interested in Guinevere. Thanks for the stool, though."

Dean chuckled at her answer and moved to the couch where Benny sat at one end. He slid onto the arm next to him, offered one of his most charming smiles, and opened his mouth to speak. At that moment, however, the television mounted high on one wall flashed to life.

The competitors were given a closed circuit view of the judges as they deliberated, but there was no sound, no way of knowing what they were saying.

"Does anybody read lips?" someone asked. Dean thought it was Meg.

Of course, Dean's first thought was of Eileen. He knew his brother's girlfriend could read lips, but it was sign language Dean was picking up at her influence, not lip-reading.

"We can make this fun and turn it into our own version of 'Bad Lip Reading,'" suggested Ash. Kevin, Jo, Charlie, and Garth joined him, and inane sentences filled the room.

"Pluck the wings up off the beetle."

"Sandy drinks light my pants."

"It's a cat ass trophy."

"Wait... did she really just say something was a catastophy?"

Dean found the whole thing unconducive to striking up a conversation with Benny. He just sat on the arm of the couch like a lump, watched the screen, and waited. After what felt like hours, but surely couldn't have been, Gabriel stepped forward. He said a few words, appeared to listen, spoke again... it went on for a few minutes before Gabriel nodded and turned to the opening in the partitions. He was heading to the Painter's Lounge.

"Gabriel's coming," Garth announced, unnecessarily. All of the competitors were on their feet when the door opened. It wasn't Gabriel, but a handler, and he looked spooked to have twelve people already standing and ready.

"Um." His eyes skimmed the faces then landed on the television screen. "Oh, shit." He glanced over his shoulder then leaned in to Bela, who stood closest to him. "Did you hear any of that?" he asked quietly.

She leaned in to him as well. "Not a word," she replied in a stage whisper. Dean could hear the amusement in her voice. Bela straightened her posture and folded her arms. "There's no sound; only picture."

The handler nodded rapidly. "It wasn't supposed to come on until later. Anyway, come with me. Make sure you're lined up the same way you were when you were out there last." He led them back to the stage room. Gabriel was back on the dais with the judges, and four sets of eyes watched the painters reclaim their places. The handler didn't mention the television, nor did anyone else. Dean hoped no one would get fired from the mistake. He wondered how much differently this would play out if the painters already knew how the judges had settled.

"Welcome back, painters," Gabriel greeted with a smile. "The judges have talked it over, and they have come to a decision. Charlie. Meg. Dean..."

Gabriel paused after the three names, no doubt letting worry fester in their guts.

"Ruby. Jo. And Bela. All six of you are safe and may head back to the Painter's Lounge."

Dean's breath caught in his throat. Safe. He could deal with safe. Half of the painters stepped back out of the line and retraced their steps to the lounge again. This time, the television had sound, and before they even got settled onto the couches, Gabriel's voice spoke to them from the screen.

"Benny, Kevin, and Garth. Please step forward." The three men moved from their long dais to the end of the catwalk where they could face the judges and host directly. Gabriel let the silence -and the nerves- stretch. "You are the top three. Congratulations. Judges?"

"Benny," Rowena spoke first. "Your two scenes depicting the same trumpet player spoke to the soul. I truly enjoyed the blaze of colors on the front of your piece, and though you were obviously aiming to show contrast, the back was terribly stark. It's possible to use color and still show melancholy."

Benny gave a single nod and that same small smile.

"Kevin." It was Cain's turn. "The depth of your Spanish dancers was unparalleled. A lesser artist would not have been able to stretch a whole person all the way from fingertips to the center of a body and make it look properly proportioned. However, I would have liked something more than just a guitar on your model's back. Detailed though it was, I feel you could have added something more to it."

"Thank you," Kevin said softly.

"Garth," Balthazar rounded out the trio. "I wanted to be on that dirt path with Howie. I wanted to go listen to Curtis play his harmonica and tell stories. The realism in your work brought it to life in a way one doesn't often see in body painting. Just make sure you don't ignore the arms and legs of your model. There's space there that can be used to enhance your story and not just expand the width of your canvas."

Garth nodded several times. "Okay, yeah, that makes sense. Thank you."

"And the winner of the first main Canvas of Flesh challenge for season four is..." Gabriel paused dramatically.

It was Cain who filled in the blank. "Kevin."

The kid's eyes popped, and he looked at the two older men standing on either side of him before turning a dazed, lop-sided grin to the judges. Benny clapped him on the back, and Garth gave polite applause, both of them smiling with him.

_Voiceover_  
_Kevin: Oh... Oh my God... Oh my... Me? I didn't even make it into the top three for the mini challenge, and now I won?_

"Congratulations, Kevin," Gabriel said. "You, Benny, and Garth can return to the Lounge with the other painters."

The three of them disappeared around the partition wall, and after a moment, Dean heard them enter the Lounge. He turned to greet them and wasn't the only one to speak.

"Hell yeah, Kevin!"

"Good job, buddy!"

"You earned it!"

"Will the last three contestants step forward?" Gabriel's somber voice yanked Dean's attention back to the screen. The room fell silent; they all awaited word. Who would be leaving?

Ash, Crowley, and Cassie took the same spot at the end of the catwalk as had the top three just minutes before. Cassie still looked like she was going to cry. Ash carried an expression of disappointment. Crowley somehow looked pompous, like he was about to be knighted but didn't like the idea of kneeling for it.

"You are the bottom three," Gabriel intoned. "One of you will be going home. Judges?"

"Cassie," Balthazar started it off. "You wowed us with your family dinner in the first round, but then turned around and gave us a ballerina with the face of the Elephant Man."

Dean cringed with Cassie and heard "Ooohhh, damn" in the room behind him. He didn't even bother to look to see who it was.

"Crowley," Cain picked up. "This challenge was meant to inspire, not so you could just turn half of your model into nothing more than the instrument itself. Making your model into an accordion showed lack of imagination and a refusal to think creatively."

"Ash," it was Rowena to round out the three. "We understand your vision, but the way you executed it left much to be desired. Frankly, it was a bit embarrassing for everyone involved."

"The painter who will be going home today is..."

Again, it was Cain who delivered the news. "Ash."

A chorus of "what??" sounded through the Lounge. Dean shared an incredulous look with Charlie on the couch next to him. Cain's voice pulled them back to the screen.

"Ash, you do have a tremendous amount of ability in painting, but you need to work on perception and creative use of your canvas."

"Thank you, Ash," Gabriel told him. "But you have been eliminated. Please return to the house and collect your belongings."

"Thanks, ya'll," Ash replied with a half bow. "I appreciate the opportunity." He gave a small wave and stepped lightly off the catwalk, away from the remaining two.

"Cassie, dear, I hope this was a wakeup call for you," said Rowena, pulling attention away from the retreating mullet. "Just because you start the day at the top does not secure anything. It's fine to push yourself. In fact, we encourage it, but be aware of your limits. And Fergus."

Crowley looked on the verge of correcting her, but Rowena plowed ahead. "This is a painting competition, and while your skill cannot be questioned, we do question your creativity and your attitude. Be sure to connect with one and correct the other. This is your only warning."


End file.
